


Fluffy Like A Pork Bun

by Harmony



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harmony/pseuds/Harmony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘I don’t know why you’re giving me all these pork buns, day in, day out. But I can’t eat them anymore, Kusajishi-Fukutaicho.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fluffy Like A Pork Bun

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was a request from Astellecia, who gave me the prompt "grown up" (but they're not grown up here, I just did my own interpretation of the prompt). Takes place after the battle of the Gotei 13 Captains and Vaizards against Aizen.
> 
> Also posted at my Livejournal :) Any feedback would be very much appreciated.

It first started outside his office; he would find a warm pork bun labeled TO SHIRO-CHAN in a messy childish scrawl, wrapped in paper and placed at the base of his door, every morning of every day. He gave the first one to Matsumoto, the second to Abarai, the third to Hinamori, the fourth and fifth to Hisagi and Kira, and the sixth to Abarai again. Seven buns in and he had already run out of people who accepted them (and Abarai was too self-conscious, he knew, to accept another one so soon even though he wanted one), so he had started eating them himself for lunch. He never questioned its origins after the first day.  
  
Because on the second day he had already spied Lieutenant Kusajishi skipping happily around Seireitei with a basket on her back, filled to the brim with steaming pork buns, and the messy notes made sense all too quickly. She even turned and brightly greeted him hello.  
  
And then, it grew to twice a day; once in the morning, and once in the evening. Toshiro was already growing tired of pork buns for lunch, but having grown up in the slums in constant preparation for probable famine, he was raised to never waste even a crumb; he was forcing himself to wolf them down for lunch, and devour them for dinner, and now forcing them on Abarai when he couldn’t handle any more. And then, within a couple of days, the number had grown by one again. One bun in the morning, one bun in the afternoon, one bun in the evening.  
  
He literally had to walk to the Eleventh Division to see her, and tell her: ‘I don’t know why you’re giving me all these pork buns, day in, day out. But I can’t eat them anymore, Kusajishi-Fukutaicho.’  
  
She only brightened, her pink hair swaying around her, and chirped: ‘Shiro-chan is cute! And white and fluffy like a pork bun. I give them to Shiro-chan because I want to.’  
  
‘Well, please stop,’ he only said curtly, and walked away from there, slightly miffed. It was the first time anybody had said he was like a pork bun, and he wasn’t all too impressed. Though he wouldn’t expect much, coming from such a childish shinigami.  
  
They didn’t stop coming; three times a day, every day, and by this time, he had already become so familiar with the taste of pork buns that he could imagine the fluffy texture on his tongue and the chewy consistency of the meat at his mind’s will. He had also given up taking the first initiative to eat them at all – he would hand them over almost every day to Abarai, Kira and Hisagi, one each. On other days he would leave them in a basket outside the door, with a sign for anybody to take them for free. Sometimes he would come outside at night after work and he would still find one or two lying in the basket, and would force himself to have them for late supper with tea.  
  
Maybe there was a small shred of comfort in the ridiculousness of it all, but he didn't have time to think about it. Soon enough, he had to go to war.  
  
The days and nights had blurred together in his memory; he remembered nothing of these little gifts when he and the captains eventually returned, hearts and minds on edge, and he never thought twice about there being nothing outside his door. Even the mere recollection of the silvery sound of blades and the coppery smell of blood during the battles with Aizen was enough to send him into frustration; he wished he could have done more, he wished he could have done better. And it consumed his mind completely. Hinamori was also gravely injured, and she would take some time to heal.  
  
So he went into self-isolation, and began training, even though the threat of danger was presently subdued – for now. Captain’s duties in the morning; training in the afternoon; more duties in the evening; more training in the night before sleep. Sweat glistening, thin muscles straining, and the glimmering brightness of ice. It was all that made up his world, and the more he thought about that dark, blank look on Hinamori’s face right before she fell at his own blade … the more he wanted to push himself to the point of exhaustion and pain. Anything, to be stronger.  
  
It was one night after an hour’s worth of bankai control training when he stepped out of the training grounds, only to be met by a giant basket of pork buns, with Lieutenant Kusajishi waiting there. Suddenly everything, all the memories of mountains of white and the floury texture he’d many times forced into his mouth came rushing back. He goggled at the sight. The basket was so big she couldn’t even carry it on her back; it was taller than she was.  
  
‘Hey Shiro-chan!’ she sang. ‘I’ve been saving up all these buns while you’ve been unhappy. But your ice thingy is getting better and better. And eating makes people happy. But you said you couldn’t eat by yourself any more, so let’s eat them all together!’  
  
He only blinked. And she had already sat down on the ground without even bothering to ask whether or not he’d actually reciprocate, cross-legged, stuffing her face full with one bun and holding another one out to his face.  
  
The white-haired captain sighed and gingerly sat down next to her, and accepted a pork bun, which resulted in an explosion of a grin across the lieutenant’s face. He even let her wave around a bun to imitate him flying around in bankai form. They went through one bun, then another, then another, and the meat was toasty warm; the bread filled him to satisfaction. And before he knew it, it was far past his bedtime, and he didn't mind. His heart felt surprisingly content and calm for a time, spending a few hours in her company this way, talking about nothing special; the pork buns didn’t taste so bad, either, when he wasn’t forcing himself to eat them.  
  
He glanced at her and she smiled brightly at him, and he realized that maybe she wasn’t so childish after all.


End file.
